


Dysthanasia

by CarlyChameleon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Forced Cohabitation, Human/Vampire Relationship, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Obsession, Survival, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 09:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17702153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarlyChameleon/pseuds/CarlyChameleon
Summary: A supernatural researcher in a near-future Earth stumbles across an "unregistered" vampire. When he follows the creature, hoping to prevent a woman from being the next victim, he finds out that maybe he should have been more worried about himself.





	Dysthanasia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsPineTime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsPineTime/gifts).



> I apologize for the general shoddiness of this and can only hope you at least enjoy some of the concepts in here. It's my own fault for waiting until the 11th hour and excuses, excuses. IOU a second draft? ^^;

 

**Status report logged: 1-14-80 0124**

**Agt: I. Soto**

**ID: 784**

**Zone: 93**

**Case Code: 1897**

Unregistered bloodborn noted at 0124 in all-nite diner next to old interstate. Pretending to drink coffee. 2 sugars, 2 creamers. Obviously not human since it takes more like 10 to choke down shitty brew in this place. Subject scoped place for marks while stirring.

Physical characteristics: Medium brown skin, no tats, no scars, no mods. 5 o’ clock shadow going on around outline of jaw but clean shaven otherwise. Blue-green eyes that have waitress stopping by every minute to “make sure” he doesn’t want anything else. Dark brown hair, wavy, trimmed around the ears and longer on top. One of those deals that takes an hour to make look effortless. Average height, about 5’ 8”. Can’t be sure about build because of jacket but estimate a solid, fit 150 lbs. Overall, appearance of male in mid to late 20s you can take home to parents. No wonder we haven’t tagged this one. Nobody expects fangs behind a smile and dimples.

Waiting for subject to move. Will observe from distance, see if nest can be found.

**Re: Status Report of Case #1897 logged: 1-14-80 0201**

**Admin: R. Khang**

**ID: 209**

**Zone: 163**

Tag noted. Good catch, Soto. Profile being compared with previous sightings. Keep head down, do not engage. Back up to be deployed as soon as description is run. You know the drill.

**Update report #1897 logged: 1-14-80 0413**

Broke off pursuit approx.. 15 min. after leaving diner. Subject walked at easy pace, hands in jacket pockets like he could feel cold. Headed for edge of downtown, ran into acquaintance standing outside local dive. Couldn’t tell if friend was bloodborn or potential meal. Unable to find excuse to hang around, disengaged. Will see if I get another hit tomorrow.

**Re: Update #1897 logged: 1-14-80 1238**

**Admin: R. Khang**

**ID: 209**

**Zone: 163**

No matches. Either new one or damn good at hiding. Both bad in their own ways. Little too far south for Desmond Walsh’s brood, but you never know. Continue to hang back. Sgt. Alan Curry and Corp. Tina Yi are on their way.

**Update report #1897 logged: 1-15-80 012**

Subject at diner before me tonight. Crap coffee and stir/scanning again. Wish I’d sat closer. Same waitress is chatting him up, but too far to catch names or details. Will look weird if I suddenly change booths. Is what it is.

Subject looks no different except for change of clothes. Bloodborn looking flushed after a feed is mostly BS, I know, but sometimes they do seem, I dunno, more _present_ somehow? Probably wouldn’t be going through the motions if he’d chomped someone already, though. Will follow to see if waitress is in for killer hickey later on.

**Re: Update on #1897 1-15-80 0635**

Back up arrived, Soto. Meet at location provided in map attachment within next hour.

**Re: Update on #1897 1-15-80 0723**

Soto, status? Sgt. Curry says you haven’t shown.

**ALERT: PROTOCOL 1997 1-15-80 0805**

**Zone: 163**

Curry, Yi, I don’t think the bastard was after the waitress. Find them.

-

It was embarrassing how fast it had happened. Isaac had always been sure he’d put up a good fight at least—death before dishonor and all that good stuff—but there hadn’t been any warning. No footsteps rushing up behind him. No ominous chuckles from the darkness of an alley. No hair raised on the back of his neck until an arm had snaked and constricted around it. A few moments of pressure on his carotid arteries turned the world white, then black. When it returned, likely only a handful of seconds later, it was too late. The dry texture of a fabric gag cut into the corners of his lips and zip ties trussed his hands to his ankles. Disappointment in himself outweighed any panic over being bound and gagged in the trunk of a car at first. Slowly, though, reality began to sink in.

He would be dinner and a show if he didn’t get his ass in gear. Isaac’s priorities abruptly realigned themselves. He scrambled to think. The subtle hum of the electric engine and gentle bumping and rocking motion meant they were on the move. Trunks had latches to open them from the inside. He could maybe wriggle around and grope until he found the one in there. Roll out into the road. Hope he wasn’t turned into an interstate pancake by any vehicles following in that lane. It had to be preferable to what awaited at the end of the ride.

He’d just completed Step One—felt the rush of free air against his skin, heard the dull roar of its passing—when the car began to lose speed and drift toward the shoulder. Desperation had gotten him as far as up onto his knees before time ran out. The crunch of shoes on gravel came around the side of the car and the bloodborn loomed over him against the backdrop of the lightening sky. His features didn’t stand out too clearly in the gray haze of pre-dawn. Except those eyes. Same color as a tropical sea and backlit by the power of stolen lives. He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket with what might have been an apologetic expression. Isaac would have given anything short of his life to shove him headfirst into a woodchipper—forget the sun-cured stakes.

“I didn’t want to resort to this, but I can tell you’re going to be a handful.” The bloodborn’s voice projected goodwill, giving away only the barest hints of accent around the vowels. Spanish or Portuguese most likely, especially this close to the Broken Coast.

“Fuck you,” Isaac replied, his own basic, Central States tone muffled by the gag.

Smiling, the bloodborn pulled his hand from his jacket pocket. Something small and made of glass winked. A syringe. He pulled the cap off and tossed it to the gravel.

Isaac thrashed, cursed, strained muscles. It didn’t stop the bloodborn from getting an arm around his neck again, only to restrain this time, while the needle stung his bicep. That task completed, the bloodborn threw the syringe aside, calmly reached into the trunk, and wrenched off the escape latch with a jerk of the wrist. He still wore the same magazine photoshoot smile while sealing Isaac back into his lightly upholstered tomb. Fuming became the remaining option. There’d be plenty of time for it, he suspected; whatever the bastard had injected him with would work even slower for having to be absorbed through muscle. That meant a long ride ahead.

It took what he estimated to be a half hour before the drug slipped into his brain, picking at the tangled threads of terror, outrage, and despair. They unraveled, fell away. Combined with the gentle hum of the engine and rocking motion of the car it turned his eyelids and limbs to lead.

Isaac Soto rode to his doom not with a roar or whimper but a snore.

-

He woke with a snort. Something warm and wet coated his cheek. Wiping at it with one hand, Isaac discovered he’d been drooling. He blinked at his fingers, brain processing frantically as it came back online.

Daylight. All around him. Limbs free, he propped himself on one elbow to look down. A double bed beneath him. Clean, crisp sheets and blanket, ergonomic pillows, soothing scent of lavender detergent throughout. Nordic-style furniture in the rest of the room: nightstands, dresser, a full-length mirror in a corner by the large window. Functional and elegant in their simple, straight lines.

Isaac threw off the covers and got up. That lasted two seconds before blood rushed to his skull and drowned his motor skills. He plopped back onto the mattress, dizzy. His second attempt went at a slower pace, introduced him to all his new aches, but met with success. Isaac frowned down at his bare feet for a moment. Whoever had brought him to the room had also been considerate enough to remove his sneakers before tucking him in. They sat patiently under the nightstand, waiting. Turning toward the mirror, Isaac and his reflection exchanged perplexed scowls. While he had no complaints about being alive, he couldn’t riddle out the how. Or, more important, the _why_. If he’d expected to wake up at all he would’ve bet it would be in a cage. As an animal waiting to be slaughtered. Not put to bed like the friend who’d had one too many at the bar the previous night.

He studied the window. The heavy, royal-blue drapes framing it. The gauzy…undercurtains? was that a thing?...beneath those. Bars of sunlight slanted in through the spotless glass. Shit fire and save matches, he could hear _birds singing._

It took Isaac two strides to get to the window and shove the curtains farther aside. He spared just a few seconds to note the modest yard one level below, complete with synthetic grass and patio furniture. Instead, his interest went to the metal latch on top of the sliding section. Grabbing it, he yanked. Didn’t budge it. Progressed to cursing and yanking on the damn thing. Still not so much as a wiggle. Finally, with his nose pressed close enough to steam up the glass and pick up the faint whiff of dust he understood why.

Someone had soldered the latch permanently shut. Banging a fist against the panes told Isaac more bad news: the window wasn’t made of glass. Glass didn’t make such a dull thump when struck or feel that sturdy. Bullet-resistant acrylic or polycarbonate, however, did.

So. He’d woken in a cage after all. Just a more pleasant one than imagined.

“Mother _fuck_ ,” Isaac said through jaw muscles screwed tight. Not a turn of phrase that had gotten him into honors English at university maybe, but an apt expression of his mood. Well, he’d try the door as a formality before searching for something to start pummeling the walls with.

Mouth a thin, dire line, he went over and gripped the knob. Almost jumped clear out of his skin when it rotated without resistance and the whole damn thing swung open. He caught his balance after a stumble. A short hallway leading to another ajar door ran off to the right. Through the crack he could see a tidy bathroom. Stairs waited to the left. Marveling at the absurdity of still needing to worry about such mundane concerns, Isaac made a pitstop at the former before descending the latter.

A townhome. That’s what they called these sorts of split-level apartments. Couple of spaces upstairs, another bedroom on the ground level, plus a sitting area, kitchen, and half-bath. In this case, the downstairs room had been left empty except for more blue drapes and the smell of fresh paint. Isaac’s examination of the other two were perfunctory; the real matter at hand was the front door.

He approached it as if it were a growling dog. To be honest, his caution went beyond the suspicion he’d find this somehow blocked off too. Each step he took toward the door dropped another leaden lump of dread into his belly. By the time he could reach for the handle, cold sweat slithered down his spine, beaded his brow, and slicked his palms.

Not just a door. He _knew_ it couldn’t be just a fucking door. Yet, ever the optimist, he made the mistake of turning the knob anyway.

A hideous sucking sound, like a large creature hauling itself out of bog mire, accompanied a gray hand oozing out of the wood. It’s gnarled, clammy fingers clamped around Isaac’s wrist. Though he could see right through its mottled gray flesh its grip proved solid enough to start applying crushing pressure to the delicate network of bones inside his forearm. Stench rolled off the phantom limb to help prove its reality as well. Humid wafts of vegetation, animal meat, and waste stewing in stagnant water. Being rendered into the next layer of sludge.

The sagging face that slimed its way through the door after the hand was overkill by that point really. A gargling scream bubbled out of its ragged, sagging, stinking hole of a mouth. Isaac answered with a much shriller one of his own. Half-choking on the reek of the thing’s breath, he wrenched his arm out of its grip and fell on his ass hard enough to put a second crack in it. His nails and heels scrabbled at the hardwood flooring, dragging him away from the wretched specter.

Slowly, it melted back into the door, empty eye sockets never looking away until the face vanished. Only a faint sheen of something that dripped down the paint remained to show it had been there at all.

Isaac lay panting on the living room floor, glad he’d used the toilet minutes before.

Once his heartrate had returned to something like normal he sat up and began to review his options in light of this new development.

Almost ten years. He’d been a field researcher on the Coven’s payroll for that long. Since he was nineteen. Since the jagged claw marks crisscrossing his back had turned to scars. He knew monsters, in other words. Knew some about magic too, though that hadn’t been the specialty he’d chosen. Everything he’d encountered since waking up came from his mental file of Very Bad Things.

For instance, while studying the subject of bloodborn, he’d learned many broods of unregistered individuals ran underground businesses. Black markets full of charming items like charred infant bones, choice body parts culled from suicides or murderers, or various fluids from select portions of the mortal population—virgins and children born at certain times of year counted among the usual targets. Then there were the so-called mortuaries and crematoriums that disposed of the, ah, _byproducts_ from such markets. Of course, they didn’t turn away paying human customers either; cartels and sundry other shady organizations were more than welcome to drop by and have material evidence destroyed for a convenience fee.

The most horrifying, in Isaac’s opinion, had been the part about real estate. Namely, how one bloodborn with some financial acumen, or a group, would buy property somewhere quiet, out of the way. A complex of townhomes an hour or two away from the old interstate, say. These would be outfitted with various means to hold something or someone against their will. For days perhaps. Maybe weeks, months—longer, who knew? It really depended on the renter, who might be anything from a serial rapist to a director of hardcore bondage streams.

Not to mention, not infrequently, a bloodborn who couldn’t give half a shit about the Coven’s rules and regulations regarding feeding. Who preferred the old-fashioned method of stalking a human and tearing their throat out once in a blue moon. Or sipping their life dry over a longer period. Either way, the result came out the same.

It took Isaac around twenty minutes to exhaust his supply of expletives and tears. Another fifteen to recuperate enough willpower to drag himself up off the floor and go to work.

Roughly seven hours of daylight remained, if the comm screen on the fridge was correct. Seven hours with which to search that slaughter pen decorated with impersonal catalogue-ordered furnishings. Not much time, but maybe, if he used it wisely, enough to save his life.

-

Night had fully taken over before the bloodborn came through the door. Isaac fumbled and dropped the cabinet hinge he’d managed to pry away earlier, but kept hold of the stake he’d been sharpening—or attempting to anyway—with it. There hadn’t been any tools to be found in the townhouse—of course there hadn’t. So he’d done a lot of kicking, wrenching, pulling, and sweating to obtain anything with metal or sharp edges. He was covered in the scrapes, bruises, and sweat to prove it too.

The bloodborn shut the door behind him. Set the tote bag he carried down on the floor. His Caribbean-blue eyes fell on the stockpile of makeshift weapons Isaac had managed to throw together. Not much really. The wood from cabinets, dresser, and bed slats under the mattress split too easily most of the time to make trustworthy stakes. He doubted they would withstand the force needed to pierce up under a ribcage—forget through one—and stab into a heart. Without tape or glue there wasn’t much he could do to reinforce the tips. Still, it beat sitting in despair and writing _eat me_ across his forehead.

“I see you’ve kept yourself busy. Good.” A note of genuine pleasure in the bloodborn’s voice said he meant it too.

As it turned out, fight or flight weren’t the only two responses embedded into the human brain. Freeze held enormous influence as well. Isaac had played out dozens of scenarios through his head while toiling away. Now that the moment of truth had arrived, though, his body didn’t want to sync up to any of his brain’s careful plans. As if some primitive part of him believed that staying perfectly still long enough would deceive the predator in the room that he wasn’t there.

Instead, all the bloodborn did was smile and lunge.

Panic crowded out any hope of rational strategy. Nothing but a hammering heart, constricted throat, and tensed muscles remained. Isaac brought the shoddy stake slashing down in an overhead arc just as the blurred form of the bloodborn came into range. The crudely sharpened tip struck his enemy in the shoulder. It didn’t splinter. Didn’t penetrate either. Strong arms captured him around the thighs. Lifted him straight off the ground. Isaac’s stomach lurched and he squawked like a baby bird falling out of the nest as he was tossed up and over, did a terrifyingly slow somersault, and landed awkwardly on one of the sofas. The breath flew from his lungs in a painful whoosh. He’d barely managed to suck in half a gulp of air when his host vaulted easily over the sofa’s back and landed on top of him.

Panic pumped a fresh shot of adrenaline into Isaac’s system. He thrashed and kicked, aiming for any soft parts he could. He nearly took out one of those lambent blue-green eyes, but the bloodborn jerked back in time to get away with red scratches raked down his cheek. Isaac paid for it by having his wrist captured in a crushing grip. The other fell not long after. Both were pinned above his head. He continued to buck, hoping to roll the bloodborn off, maybe get the upper hand somehow, but the bastard kept his full weight securely on his chest the whole time. At last, Isaac exhausted himself. Tense and trembling, he glared up into glittering inhuman eyes with a depth of hatred he hadn’t realized himself capable of.

It took a bit for the bloodborn to speak. “What’s your name?”

Calm. Utterly rational. Friendly even. If Isaac hadn’t already used the _fuck you_ line he would have spat the words in the thing’s patiently polite face. No reason to make himself predictable.

“Does it matter?” he shot back, bitter as ashes.

The simple reply came without missing a beat. “Yes.”

He stared. No sign of mockery or madness could be seen on the bloodborn’s features, though.

“You’re unregistered.” Isaac sounded as bewildered as he felt.

Amusement touched the corners of the full mouth. “I am.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“I did.”

“You’re holding me prisoner against my will.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You intend to murder me.”

“Eventually…yes.”

Isaac’s temples pounded like bass drums. “Then why give half a shit what my name is?”

That puzzler put them on equal mental footing at least. The bloodborn regarded him for a full minute with raised brows. “You’re the first person to ask me that.”

“What. An. Honor.”

A sigh, followed by another pause. Good grief, he was actually throwing together some half-assed explanation. Despite himself, curiosity snuck into Isaac’s thoughts. He’d heard the bullshit unregistered bloodborn spewed to try to justify guzzling down human lives: that it made them more physically and mentally powerful; because the Coven had no right to impose human moral codes on inhuman beings; and the ever popular it’s just in our nature. But those had been second hand accounts. What would it be like to see the body language that went with the rationalizations? To tear them apart in a debate? He had an idea it might be therapeutic, if nothing else.

“You aren’t an animal. Some of us might convince ourselves otherwise, but I’m not one of them.” The bloodborn brushed away the four rows of flaky red that had dried on his cheek. Any trace of the scratches beneath them had already healed. “And it makes the process easier, in some ways.”

Okay. So. Not the exact brand of BS he’d been ready for. Fine. He’d roll with it. “Easier for who? You or me?”

“Me, I think. But you might find it helpful as well, depending. My name is Renato, by the way. Renato Faria Dimas.”

Right. Now they would shake hands and go on a coffee date. The sarcastic thought set off a fresh spasm of terror in Isaac’s guts. “You’re insane. Batshit. _Loco._ ”

“No, not really. Just self-centered.”

The worst part had to be realizing how little ammo he had to argue against such unflinching honesty. Whatever else the bloodborn was didn’t include deluded or easily ruffled. Those eerie eyes never wavered while answering. Nothing cruel had crept over his features, but they had been equally as empty of pity. He had pondered his dining habits. Meditated on them for much longer than it took to finish a cup of coffee or take a stroll through a park, for sure. And he’d come to the conclusion that he loved his own existence more than anyone else’s. Accepted it without varnish. Isaac shuddered, ignoring the questioning look it earned him.

“How old are you? How many humans have you killed here?”

Though he hadn’t surrendered his name, Isaac’s investment in the conversation brought a flush of pleasure to the bloodborn’s face. “Not so old really. I was ten when California sank into the sea. My family and I were survivors of the first quakes and tsunamis to hit. We fled to Texas—what’s called the Floodlands now.” His grip on Isaac’s wrists eased ever so slightly. “And, if you must know, I’ve taken sixteen lives here.”

Beneath the numbing layer of horror at the situation, the usual currents of Isaac’s mind continued to flow. They carried the tidbits of information to the banks of his memory for safekeeping. He’d met few registered bloodborn who remembered the world before it had decided enough was enough and began burning, starving, sickening, and washing away the overpopulated human civilization infesting its surface. It was the biggest reason the Coven wanted bloodborn identified aside from their tendency to eat people without proper laws in effect: They were walking, talking records of history. Who knew how many ancient ones and their secrets had perished alongside mortals in the same cataclysms, their daytime bolt holes exposed to the sun by upheavals or shelled out by fires. Loss on multiple levels.

“That puts you at, what? A little over a hundred or so?” Isaac said.

“Something like that. You still haven’t told me your name.”

“I don’t see any point in making my death easier to swallow for you—pun intended.”

The thing that called itself Renato Faria Dimas regarded him with a faint smile touching his lips and a faint V of disappointment—maybe even hurt—etched in his forehead. “Do you really want to die anonymously?”

A hot flare of rage struck in his chest, Isaac flexed his wrists, testing the grip around them. Still too strong. If he kept up the talk, though, it was possible that might change. “Either you’re stupid or an asshole. _I don’t want to die at all._ But if I have to I’m not going to help absolve your guilt by pretending we’re friends.”

He shook his head. “It has nothing to do with guilt. I left that behind when I decided to go down this path. No…it’s about responsibility.” He paused, considered the weight of the of the last word, and nodded. “I learn the names of any I kill. What they like, dislike. Who they are, who they want to be. I see that their remains are given final care and returned to family and friends. It’s my way of showing gratitude for the deaths that give me life.”

“So you consume them in every sense. Then tell yourself it’s all right because you didn’t throw the leftovers into some Dumpster behind a McDonalds later on.”

The Renato-thing mulled that over. His refusal to jump into knee-jerk reactions was quickly becoming the thing Isaac hated about him most. “That’s the whole point, though, isn’t it?” His voice had softened, lowered, almost like he spoke to himself. “To consume them? It doesn’t work as well by any other method. I’m stronger, faster, more aware than any bloodborn twice my age or more will ever be who only sips, who does no harm. Acting like humans are beneath me, treating their bodies like empty food wrappers, would diminish the power of the exchange, not to mention be wrong.”

“It _is_ the same old shit with you then. Just with a few poetic flourishes thrown in.” Somehow, the fact loosened a few knots across Isaac’s shoulders and smoothed the jagged edges of fear on his thoughts. With nothing special about the bloodborn complicating matters his chances of survival rose.

Rather than argue, Renato-thing shrugged. _Believe what you want,_ the gesture declared. He proceeded to shock Isaac yet again by releasing his wrists and sliding off of him.

Now. Now was the time to attack, according to his brain. His body knew better, though. He sat up slowly, hurting and sticky with sweat all over.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Might as well have asked him if he’d taken a shit or jerked off. Isaac shot him a sneer of disgusted disbelief. “Yeah, Mom, I did. Found the stuff you stocked in the fridge and cupboards when I was ripping them apart. Liver. Beans. Fortified grains. Leafy greens. Great stuff for anemia. Real cute.”

If his lack of appreciation nettled, Renato-thing’s smile didn’t show it. “I brought you a few more things, if you want to see. Why don’t you get cleaned up and there will be something ready for you to eat when you come back?”

What the hell was this creature’s major malfunction? Did he think Isaac would willingly offer his throat in exchange for fetching his slippers and giving him a shoulder rub? That doting equaled mercy?

His thoughts must have been flashing in neon across his face because the bloodborn’s smile turned rueful. “Or you could try to fight me again. I have to warn you that your odds aren’t good since I can tell you don’t have any formal training. Didn’t the Coven offer you any?”

Isaac’s annoyance spiked into alarm. “How do you know I’m Coven?”

“You referred to me as ‘unregistered’ earlier, don’t you remember? And you never had to ask what you were doing here or what I am. I was already quite sure when I first saw you in the diner, watching me. Then trailed me on the street. Either you were one of their agents or thought I was attractive but were too shy to approach directly.” He tilted his head, eyes glittering, expectant. “I was a little disappointed to find the first hunch correct.”

Heat rushed over Isaac’s face. Not from the flirtatious gaze directed his way—he’d been the target of enough of those to handle the attention any way he wanted it to go. No, it was because he realized how transparent he’d been. How _reckless._ The Coven did offer all sorts of training in self-defense—required six months of it and passing a competency test for all new agents, in fact. He’d jumped through the hoops, proved he was at least a decent shot with small firearms at the range, and thought no more of fighting. What did field researchers need to worry about aside from carpal tunnel? He had no intentions of wrestling a wereanimal or other subject to the ground to take its measurements. If he saw something really sketchy, he could report it and keep tabs. Let the enforcers come in, put their more extensive training to good use, and do their jobs. Besides, he’d joke with anyone who’d tried to get him to sign up for jiu-jitsu or whatever, he ran regularly. He could do that anywhere an assignment sent him and cardio kept him fit enough to flee in the opposite direction of anything scary.

Yeah. Big ouch to his pride on that one.

“You’re not going to get away with this.” It sounded like stock dialogue in a bad movie even to Isaac. All the bloodborn needed was a moustache to twirl.

The thing called Renato smiled his sphinx’s smile. Lips closed, never a hint of fang. Not yet. “Are you going to get up? I’m not planning on taking any blood tonight, if you’re worried about that. And, just so you know, not showering isn’t going to deter me. Four of the others tried to make themselves as disgusting as possible—one even smeared shit on himself and the walls. It’s difficult to clean someone while they’re fighting me, but I’m not opposed to a little hard work.”

After a minute of glowering and failing to ignore the way his heart sank like a punctured balloon, Isaac decided getting up wasn’t giving in. No point in making himself miserable. His host already had that base covered.

-

When he came back downstairs, showered and moisturized and smelling of sage soap, Isaac found himself alone. A plate of still steaming, delicious-smelling food waited for him on the kitchen counter.

Apparently, the bloodborn had seen what he needed to see. He’d also taken all of the hard-won scrap from the floor, bastard. Isaac huffed a humorless laugh before taking the plate (ecofriendly bamboo and thus poor weapon material) to the sofa. Rather than watch anything on the holo—which had numerous connection restrictions anyway, he’d checked—he schemed while he ate. He replayed the whole confrontation that evening, from the front door opening to him stomping up the stairs to wash. Any tidbit endowed with significance he sifted out. He combed over his memory again for anything that might have hidden layers. All these he contemplated separately, in pairs or trios, and then arranged them into larger frameworks.

Dinner was long gone and Isaac had laid on the sofa, under the blankets from the broken bed, for hours in the dark before reaching any conclusions. Only then did his mind allow him to sink into uneasy sleep.

During daylight hours he continued to test the bounds of his prison. As before, dread nearly crippled him whenever he approached either the front door or high fence around the perimeter of the backyard. The multitude of putrid spirit hands that seeped out of the latter pulled him down no matter how he tried to climb. He’d even dragged the ruined bedframe down to prop against the fence. Once done tugging him to the grass, the ghastly hands ripped and crushed the wood to unusable splinters. On the bright side, Isaac believed there was a possibility he could use that knowledge later on.

Shouting to anyone in the neighboring townhomes produced nothing but a hoarse throat. Not so much as a face peeping out from behind the closed curtains. Either the units in each complex were enchanted to block off sound or no one gave a damn about screams. They were almost one and the same thing really.

The bloodborn found him eating at the counter when he came in a few hours after sundown. Isaac had been busy with the patio furniture and spirits guarding the fence much of the afternoon. Results had been favorable; the stuff out there had proven more sturdy. The table legs were metal, hollow but serviceable after the hands had wrenched them apart. Rather than get caught with his pants down like the night before, Isaac had made sure to stow them away with daylight still in effect. They were going to come in handy soon. Oh, yes.

Renato-thing regarded him with approval for a moment. “I’ve ordered a new bedframe. It should arrive in a few days.”

“You must have a lot of money,” Isaac said, already planning what he might do with the pieces.

“I do well enough.” A modest shrug.

“You must be part of a powerful brood. Which one?”

That got a coquettish smile. “I’ll tell you if you give me your name.”

Isaac shook his head. One of his conclusions had been on that very point: resistance made him more interesting, more appetizing, and ironically, more likely to be kept alive longer. There was a fine line, of course. Attempts to hurt himself would probably get him restrained somehow, so he had to maintain a balance. Give a little here, push back some there. The amused quirk to the bloodborn’s lips supported his theory.

“I’m not that curious,” he said to Renato-thing. “I’ll tell you what I really do want, though.” Just as he’d imagined while laying awake last night, he paused for effect.

Leaning forward a bit, the bloodborn prompted him with a, “Yes…?”

“I want a way to record thoughts and observations. A writing tab, a stream-cam, bark and charcoal—whatever.”

Those unnerving stained-glass eyes widened slightly. “Do you mean to keep a diary?”

“I’m a researcher. Absorbing and organizing information is what I do. No one’s captured the process of dying by bloodborn—we have autopsy records, of course, and lists of physical symptoms, sure, but that’s not the same as an inside account.” He stabbed a piece of well-done steak on his plate, cracking one of the tines of his bamboo fork. “Besides, that’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to cling to a purpose? To not give up? To be full of _life?_ ”

Isaac had imagined a lot of reactions after such a statement. None were as frightening as the look of…Christ, what to even call it? Flat, naked hunger was there, oh yes, but another emotion eclipsed it. Something that softened the predatory sharpening of features. A feeling that made Renato Faria Dimas tremble, starting from his shoulders and working its way down to his knees. It put a dint between his dark brows as if he were holding back tears in addition to the urge to rip out his guest’s throat.

Gratitude. The word struck Isaac’s mind like a brick hurled through a windshield, bringing the rest of his thoughts to a screeching halt. Shit the bed, _gratitude,_ that’s what it was. The bloodborn stared in awe and thanks for finally being understood, barely restraining the urge to drink him down for the favor. Isaac pushed his plate away, all pretense of appetite withered.

“Well? Are you going to give me anything or not?” he snapped. If had had to look at that insane expression for three more seconds he would puke.

Fortunately, the bloodborn turned on his heel and marched right out the front door. Isaac allowed himself a dram of cold satisfaction.

Four and a half hours later he had a brand new, top of the line writing tab in his hands, along with two sleek data drives. More than enough space even if he were to survive the next twenty years.

“Do you mean to leave your notes to the Coven?” the thing called Renato asked while he powered up the tab. He’d got a grip on himself during his little shopping expedition, apparently, and his expression had returned to its usual creepy congeniality.

“Who else? The world doesn’t know monsters exist and probably wouldn’t care. Too many other problems going around. And I can’t make any money or guest appearances on conspiracy streams if I’m dead, can I?” Not that those tinfoil hat-wearing morons would do much with proof of the supernatural aside from argue amongst themselves whether aliens or the world government were controlling it.

“What do you think they’ll do with them?”

“Learn. Improve.” Possibly avenge him, assuming Renato-thing didn’t know any Coven ciphers. He’d certainly edit out the obvious personal information Isaac meant to put in.

“Is there anything you want your family or friends to have?”

“My family is dead. My friends are all Coven anyway.”

Well-shaped eyebrows leaped up at that. “Dead? All of them?”

“All the immediate members. I don’t really keep in contact with my distant cousins and the rest.”

“Some type of accident?”

The ragged stripes of scar tissue slashed down his back prickled. “No.”

“Was it—”

“Shove it. You’re not my shrink. I’m not going to spill my deep, dark secrets to you, okay? Anyway, for all I know you’re a fan of the old vampire myths were you guys chomp your way through whole households like Pac-Man with fangs.”

Whether the flinch that tightened the Renato-thing’s smooth face for an instant sprang from hurt or anger—maybe a portion of both—Isaac couldn’t pinpoint. It did lend credit to another of his theories: the other sixteen victims before him had probably tried to make nice at some point. They’d answered every prying question, thinking emotional intimacy would make them harder to kill, more human and less like food. Little did they guess they’d only been whetting the monster’s appetite.

A good stretch of silence followed. Isaac finished setting up the tab before it ended.

“You were going to get me killed.”

Stylus partway through his first sentence, he peered up to meet the bloodborn’s shrewd stare.

“You must have reported me to the enforcers. You knew what they’d do, but you condemned a stranger without stopping to wonder anything about him.”

Isaac snorted. “I can’t say I feel bad about it knowing what I do now. Anyway, you’re unregistered.”

Another reflective beat of quiet. “Did one of us kill your family?”

“No, and I already told you to drop it. Why don’t you—”

The tab tumbled from his hands as he was gripped under both arms. Without so much as a grunt of effort, the bloodborn lifted him clear off the sofa, holding him in the air as if he were made of nothing but straw, his feet dangling well above the floor.

“Would you prefer I act more like a monster?” The question held no edge of menace, yet Renato-thing’s usual amusement had sharpened into intense focus.

Isaac considered kicking him and discarded the notion as suicidal. “You’re going to do whatever you feel like regardless. I’d just prefer to skip the pretenses.”

Slowly, he was lowered to the floor. The bloodborn’s hands slid down to the bottom of his ribcage, radiating warmth. People were always so surprised to learn that: the cold flesh and pall of the tomb from folklore didn’t match the vivacious, deceptively human reality. They stood close enough for their body heat, breath, and smells of clean skin and hair to mingle between them. Being about the same height, Isaac could see directly into those impossibly vibrant eyes. Notice the gradients of spring green to teal to aquamarine and the chips of cornflower-blue scattered through them. He couldn’t find his own (likely terrified) reflection floating in them, as if the bloodborn had devoured even that. He didn’t wonder that anything so beautiful could belong to a creature that thrived on death. The whole universe revolved, _evolved_ , on the push/pull of those two concepts.

When one of Renato’s hands left his side and cupped his cheek, Isaac’s heart was already pumping full-throttle. He stood ready as the other hand slipped into that jacket for something more sinister than a simple syringe full of sedative.

His knee slammed into the bloodborn’s groin. A hiss of pain escaped Renato, his lips peeling back from white teeth and finally, there they were: a neat set of fangs, uppers and lowers. They didn’t come for Isaac’s neck, though, oh no. That would have been game over. Despite romantic popular opinion, those teeth were meant for killing just like any animal’s, not making precise, petite punctures. That’s what needles and other pointy implements were for.

Their struggles sent them tumbling onto the sofa, causing it to flip over and dump them on the floor behind. Isaac got a few decent kicks in before being expertly pinned with full body weight, the hand that had tenderly cupped his cheek now pressing it to one side, exposing his neck. Two choices lay before him: keep struggling and risk tissue damage or be still and think of God and Country. Isaac heaved in deep breaths between gritted teeth as he tensed to accept Option Two.

What gave the experience an extra layer of gall was how it mirrored the Coven’s standards for feeding. Except there was nothing sterile about the burn of the needle—originally part of a venous catheter—seeking a big vein in his neck. Nothing routine in the first hot pulse of blood spilling from the puncture. Definitely not a bit impersonal with Renato’s mouth sealed over the wound, tongue pressing at his skin, lips working to suck out his life with each greedy swallow.

Isaac kept his eyes squeezed shut against the burning tears of humiliation and rage. With much more difficulty, he fought to repel the idea that under entirely different circumstances he might have relished being pressed chest to chest, hips to hips, and legs akimbo under Renato Faria Dimas.

What could have been anything from ten minutes to ten years rolled by before he started up the struggle again, afraid he’d be drained in one go. The bloodborn, mercifully, raised his head without any answering protest. A smear of red ran from a corner of his mouth to streak across his cheek, like lipstick ruined during a tryst. Relieved not to find himself feeble from anemia already, Isaac broke free and scrambled away, back hitting the hallway wall. He slapped a hand over the side of his neck to discourage any further bleeding. Or biting.

Renato sat on his heels a minute, eyes shut and head bowed as if dozing off. Isaac thought of the metal patio table legs he’d stashed away. A few strikes to the skull wouldn’t kill, but maybe give him time to search for keys or anything else useful in that jacket.

The opportunity passed before Isaac could get up, though. Raising his head, Renato fluttered his lids open. If his eyes had glowed before, they had become incandescent now. Powered by all-natural, zero emission blood, of course. Isaac’s dinner roiled in his stomach. He opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark—to scour away the sense of violation and animal fear with scorn, but his host standing shut him up.

Without a word, Renato fetched the writing tab from the living room floor. It in hand, he came toward Isaac, who tried to scuttle away. Like a naughty toddler, he was caught by the arm, hauled to his feet, and dragged forward. He began to raise his free hand, curled into a fist, to fight. Saw they were headed straight for the front door. Stopped.

The only dread he experienced belonged to himself he realized a second before the way was open, and both he and Renato stood together under the clear night sky. His arm was released. His back nudged to get him to stumble off the stoop and toward the driveway. He spun to face the bloodborn, but the only move Renato made was holding the tab out to him. Open-mouthed, dumb, and generally the complete opposite of everything he should have been once free, Isaac gawked.

“I…I don’t understand.”

That trademark mysterious smile returned, with just enough parting of lips to show a glimpse of gleaming, scarlet-stained teeth. Male Mona Lisa with fangs. “Not now maybe. Not yet. But I’ve no doubt you will. Just like you understood before. And here. You’ll want these.” A set of keys were tossed lightly at Isaac’s feet.

A rash of gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the cold desert air rippled down his arms and back. Because the cobwebs of confusion were already being dusted away while he goggled at the writing tab, the keys which had to start the car parked in the driveway.

A hunter didn’t want to trap their greatest kill in a cage to shoot it. That took away the thrill. They wanted to meet their prey in its own habitat, on its terms. Stalk it. Learn its secrets. Pit their wits against its instincts until the final clash. Let Mother Nature sort the bodies afterwards.

He also understood a stay of execution when he saw one. Isaac snatched the tab away. He didn’t dare bend down for the keys until Renato had stepped back and shut the townhouse’s front door quietly, still wearing his blood-painted smile. Not letting the entrance out of his sight, Isaac sidled up to the car. Fumbled blindly to touch the handle and heard the driver’s side lock pop open. Only breathed once the engine started and nothing reared up from the backseat to murder him.

Around fifty miles down the road he finally allowed his foot to ease off the accelerator some. The car’s heater had helped take away the chill of shock, but could do nothing for the shards of ice buried in his heart. Not even rolling down the window and chucking the writing tab out to shatter on the asphalt could cure that. Nothing but the sun cresting the horizon could bring that kind of relief.

At least until the next night followed. Just as sure as a bloodborn with eyes like a tropical sea, who had unknown resources at his disposal, would follow him. Would follow him to the ends of the earth, taking a piece of him at a time even without a needle or fangs in his neck. Because Isaac was a survivor. He meant to live at any cost. Because—God, Devil, Prophet, Buddha, Whoever help him—he understood.

The car’s autopilot system took over as Isaac’s vision blurred with tears and exhaustion. He let both overtake him, knowing he would get a grip eventually. He couldn’t afford not to. Once he reached some form of civilization, had some means of contacting Admin Khang, there would be much work to do. Giving an official statement. Medical treatment. Reporting the location of the townhouses—which would surely be abandoned by the time they were raided. Giving his superiors every bit of information of his captor that he could remember. Not to mention signing up for jiu-jitsu or whatever finally.

A swift death for Renato Faria Dimas to prevent his own slow one. He understood that all too well.

 


End file.
